The Speech
by terrified
Summary: A one-shot [of pure angst]. Sherlock has some important words he needs to say to his pathologist.


_**A/N:** I rarely have physical responses to the stuff I write. But I seriously cried my eyes out writing this one. I genuinely hope this never happens. Never ever ever ever...I'm sorry I wrote it. :( But it had been a plot that plagued me all day.._

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**The Speech**

It was a beautiful spring morning. The air smelled of crisp grass and one could almost taste the sweetness of the fresh flowers that bloomed everywhere. Sherlock put on his most formal shirt and picked his best suit. The ebony of his shirt had a slight sheen to it, which juxtaposed rather beautifully to the matte texture of his equally dark jacket and trousers.

There were not many guests and it was mostly a simple affair. Greetings were exchanged and it was all very polite. John, who naturally was there to support his best friend, helped greet and make small talk with some of the guests when Sherlock was not feeling particularly sociable. It was a social event, to say the least, but Sherlock really never was one for small talk.

Then, of course, there was Molly. This event would not have taken place without her. She was quiet, or at least that's how Sherlock chose to describe her. John merely sighed and shook his head rather hopelessly at his friend. Her dress was simple, but delightful, reflecting exactly the lady she was. Her hair was styled in a lovely braid that cascaded down and draped across her right shoulder. Sherlock remarked that the cream-coloured frock was not _Molly-coloured_ enough. When John had asked what Sherlock meant by _Molly-coloured_, Sherlock merely shrugged and said, "The only white you ever see her in is her lab coat. Colours are her signature. She could single-handedly out-colour this entire spring garden we're in…"

As soon as everyone had arrived, it was time to begin. The knot Sherlock felt in his stomach was probably going to cripple him, but he managed to steel himself on as the day began to unfold. John would constantly glance over at Sherlock. Standing beside him, John could feel the intensity of his best friend's nerves and the simmering emotion beneath his machine-like stance.

After a hymn had been sung, the priest they had chosen came forward to give a little message, as was customary. After which, he gave a prayer of blessing. Then, that was it. The ceremony they had elected to keep simple was just that. Mary gave a little announcement that some light refreshments were going to be served and if they could all adjourn to a quaint little tent that had been set up. Of course, there were some guests who lingered and took turns to give Molly their regards. On the other hand, nobody had dared approach Sherlock, whose face registered absolutely no interest in other people other than the elect few of his inner circle.

"Be nice to them, Sherlock." John whispered, nudging his friend gently. Sherlock was pulling the longest face as he watched people weave in and out, holding drinks in their hands, chatting about and, in his words, _causing a din_.

"It is not a _din_. They are all here for you too, you know."  
"It may be customary. But I don't do customary, John." Sherlock replied curtly.

Sighing, John gave his friend a firm pat on the back and left to join his wife. Not even the tempting scent of Mrs Hudson's mince pies that she had made specially for today could tempt Sherlock over to the tent to join the guests. Perhaps Sherlock needed time alone with Molly to sort himself out.

To Sherlock's relief, and in some way, John's, the small number of guests eventually ebbed to zero. One by one they bade each other goodbye, some even venturing to bid Sherlock goodbye as well. Sherlock would lift just one corner of his mouth with the utmost insincerity and nod in response. It was all he could bother to do.

"Riding with us, mate?" asked John, "We're dropping Mrs Hudson off and we could…"  
"You go ahead. I'm not done here." He answered quietly.  
"Right. Okay." John answered knowingly. The Watson's and Mrs Hudson said their goodbyes to Molly and gave Sherlock one last wave before heading off.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock could finally ease the tight muscles in his neck and relish in real peace once more. No more guests, no more of Mrs Hudson's nagging. It was just him and Molly now.

Slowly, he took a step towards where she was and cleared his throat. She was in a different dress now and when he peered closely at her he could see it was a much better dress, one that was more _her_. Seeing the bright floral dress she had on, and the sweet navy headband that swept her ponytailed hair back, Sherlock could not help but smile. This was much better than that overly-solemn, supposedly customary cream-coloured excuse of a dress she had worn earlier at the ceremony.

"Molly…" he whispered, reaching out to touch her face that smiled at him.

Before his fingertips reached her, he suddenly stepped back, remembering he had something important to do. He had prepared a speech. John had urged him to say it during the ceremony, or at least before they served the refreshments but Sherlock had flatly refused.

"If this is about Molly and I, why would I need to tell the whole world?" he had argued.

John had given up, of course, so Sherlock had his way once more.

"Right…" he said, almost nervously as he reached for a slip of paper in his trouser pocket.

Sherlock tried his best to still his hands, but truth be told, he was genuinely overcome with emotion. As the paper he held shook ever so slightly from his trembling hands, Sherlock began his speech.

"Dear Molly, my dear Molly.

I never thought a day like this would come. Well, I mean, we all expect it one way or another. I just never quite imagined it would be like this, and that I would feel this way. Yes, I do happen to feel, if that's what you're laughing about. I know you are."

He paused as the cheerful, laughing face of Molly swam into view. It made him smile and he wanted to laugh along with her. However, he was not finished and he was determined to tell her every word.

"There is so much I am going to say to you now. It was almost impossible to put to paper. Perhaps if I had been less of the type of man I am, and more of the man someone like you deserves, I would have said these things to you sooner. I would have said them often. I would have said them every time I looked for you. I would have looked for you just to say them. So I hope you forgive me, for taking this long.

Molly, on a day like today, I can only think of one thing. I can only think of vows. The vows so famously exchanged between two people who are so intertwined they barely realise that there are actually two of them, instead of one perfectly harmonious unit. I told you once that you mattered, and that you mattered the most. That stands true and even more so today. I feel it more strongly than when I stood at the rooftops of Bart's, knowing that I was going to live in spite of certain death. I was going to live because of you.

The line that stands out the most for me…is the one that says '_Til death do us part_. It was my death that made me realise I did not want to part from you anymore. I had chosen to live my life separate from how valuable you were to me, separate from how central you were to my universe, separate from how much I would always need you. Though death is what parts the inseparable, it was _my_ death that made me understand how inseparable I am from you.

So inseparable that I cannot stop thinking about you. I think about your wit, your smile, your kind heart, your inexhaustible generosity. Oh, and your bravery. You are a brave woman, Molly Hooper. Only someone like you would be brave enough to date _and_ dump Jim Moriarty, God bless his soul. And only someone like you could have faced him again! It still boggles me how you found him first and managed to sneak all that information out to Mycroft and me. It genuinely boggles me. You certainly have a way with cadavers and world-class criminals. I will not ask you who taught you how to wield a gun. I'm just glad you know how."

Sherlock blushed slightly as he remembered how an instantaneous rush of deep attraction flooded his veins when he caught his pathologist with a gun in her hand, poised to kill Moriarty's henchmen the first time they had come to threaten her. He knew she was gutsy, but she had completely bowled him over with this one.

"I must confess it was after the whole gun-wielding business that I began thinking of what it must be like to have your fingers touch mine, to have your hand clasped in mine, to hold you close to my chest, to kiss your mouth. Yes, I know I talk far too much about the size of your mouth and the state of your lipstick but really, I think it's because I've always had an inherent desire to kiss you. It's the only logical explanation, anyway. The point is, Molly, everything about me seemed to fuse itself to the notion that I had to be with you. In every way, the mind, the body, and if I believed in souls, the soul too, they had to be aligned with yours."

At this, Sherlock knelt down, so he was now at eye-level with her. He reached out to touch the glossy veneer of the small photograph embedded in its pewter frame that was set in the marble structure before him.

"Molly…" he whispered.

He ran his fingers across her smiling face and traced the outline of the intricate pewter design that circled her photo.

"My death made me realise I never wanted to part from you. My death made me wake up to the life I wanted to have with you. It woke me up to the knowledge we would exchange, the conversations we should share, our love for the unusual and the unusual fact that I, Sherlock Holmes, love every little bit of you. I always have."

Sherlock took a deep breath as he recalled the coolness of her fingers that touched the side of his face. It was that moment that he shared his first kiss with Molly. Yes, he had tasted blood, but he had also tasted her, the divine softness of her lips and the inexplicable warmth that filled him when their lips touched.

"I thought that perhaps I had outwitted these vows, that because I had cheated death, I could also cheat separation."

He had to bite his lip to compose himself. Molly's smile remained, as it would for as long as the photograph would retain its colour. However, Sherlock could barely make out her beautifully bright face as his vision blurred with a slow mirage of warm tears.

"But your death has proved otherwise, Molly, my _dear_ Molly," he could barely speak the words now. Sherlock swallowed hard and shut his eyes as his hand reached for the shining marble tombstone for support.

"In death, we do part. And you have departed from me."

The fingers that held his speech clenched so tightly that he was close to crushing the paper. Sherlock tried to calm himself and took a deep breath. He could feel his escalating heartbeat pound in his ears and he wanted to just turn away and forget everything. However, he had promised to tell her everything. It was the least he could do.

"I suppose…I should have said this sooner. I should have _realised_ it sooner. Now I know what you all mean when you all accuse me for being the most foolish genius you have all come across…"

He laughed softly at the memory and the bittersweet humour of it all.

"When you told me, all those years ago, that if there was anything I needed, anything at all, I could have you. Well, Molly, having you is the very thing I need right now. But…it's too late, isn't it? I can't be irrational and insist otherwise, can I?"

Nobody answered Sherlock's rhetorical questions. There was a slight rustling of leaves but that was all. Complete silence surrounded the detective who lay crouched by the tombstone of his pathologist.

"How can I say goodbye, Molly? When I never _really_ said hello?"

He paused, blinking hard so his vision would be clear once more. His breath caught from the sobs he was trying to suppress. In spite of himself, memories of her brutal death flooded his head, surging through every chamber of his mind.

"I kissed you…right at the moment I would never get to kiss you again. I held you…right at the moment I would never hold you again. I understood the warmth of your lips…the very moment you began to turn cold from death."

Sherlock exhaled sharply and shook his head, trying to shake the memories out of his head.

"So I suppose, I am making this speech because…"

He looked up and made sure to look right into her beautiful brown eyes. Even though it was just a picture, he could feel just a hint of her life that still lingered.

"I may have kissed you, I may have held you…But I never got to tell you the most crucial thing of all."

Sherlock stood up, inhaled slowly and straightened his jacket.

"People normally have to look smart and be all proper and gentlemanly when they say things like that, don't they?" he said, with a laugh as a few tears betrayed him, sliding down his cheek.

Sherlock stood up straight, readjusted the handkerchief in his jacket pocket and cleared his throat once more. Fixing his eyes on her photograph, he smiled the best smile he could, the sort that radiated from inside him, the type that touched his eyes, the sort his only reserved for her.

"I love you, Molly Hooper."

With those final words, his speech came to an end. He folded the piece of paper, touched his fingers to his lips, then touched it to the top of the tombstone. Sherlock then dried his eyes and walked silently away from where Molly lay buried, and where the heart he discovered lay buried too.

**END**


End file.
